Stagedoor
by violon du mort
Summary: Wicked is Erik's biggest guilty pleasure, and Christine Daaé happens to be the best Glinda he's ever seen. Modern AU, E/C.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written. But hey, Christine's a soprano and Erik appreciates the performing arts so why not? This is a mish-mash of different versions of the story (mainly Leroux and ALW with a dash of Kay), but it's a modern au so it's not like that's too important. This is also my first POTO fic so reviews are very much appreciated! And the premise is kind of unorthodox when it comes to the rules of stagedoor etiquette and the like but let me dream.**

* * *

The minute Erik walked into the crowded Gershwin theatre on Saturday evening he immediately regretted it. He _knew_ it would be crowded tonight, and was he _really_ so desperate to see the understudy Glinda? He was so used to going on weekdays, when it was still far too full for his taste but manageable enough if he kept his head down and sat towards the back. But only now, surrounded by dozens of tourist families with obnoxious children as he found his seat near the orchestra, did he realize the ridiculousness of a tall, overdressed masked man in his late thirties watching _Wicked_ alone on a Saturday night. And it wasn't his first time either, which made it worse in his mind, though he doubted anyone else would know that he'd been in this exact theater twenty-six times before.

 _Wicked_ was his biggest guilty pleasure. It wasn't the best musical out there, and he wasn't going to pretend it was, but for some reason the show had this magnetic _charm_ that never grew old. Maybe it was the extravagant visuals, or the way each new cast brought fresh energy onto the stage, or even the almost childish kinship he felt with the character of Elphaba. Whatever it was, it worked, and far too well. Especially since his first reaction to a negative experience with the principal cast was to jump on the first opportunity to see an understudy.

He'd seen the new cast about a month ago, and Carla Giudicelli was the most horrendous Glinda he'd ever watched. It was such a waste, too, because her singing voice was technically impeccable. She had experience in opera and it showed, but Erik had never in his life seen acting more soulless. Even her "Popular" bored him to tears. The whole cast had felt rather low-energy that night, and for the first time ever he left the Gershwin completely disappointed.

He was very aware of how illogical it was to sit through a two and a half hour show with a mediocre cast a second time in hopes of a single character's portrayal being semi-decent, but he couldn't resist. Seeing someone's debut was always exciting, and if the understudy was good her performance could finally wash out the bad taste Giudicelli's interpretation had left.

Finally settling in his seat, Erik started flipping through his playbill, briefly glancing at the understudy slip. _At tonight's performance, the role of GLINDA will be played by CHRISTINE DAAÉ._ He found her name in the _Who's Who in the Cast_ page and read through her previous credits. This was her Broadway debut, and pretty much all of her other credits were for regional theatre. She hadn't really done much before this, he realized. Tonight was probably going to be the highlight of her career.

The lights darkened, and Erik put his playbill aside, waiting for Glinda's bubble to float onstage. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, considering how low Giudicelli had set the bar. He supposed she'd be decent, but it was only her first night. He sure as hell wasn't prepared for what he got.

She was glorious.

From the minute she started singing, Erik was entranced. Her voice was so pure, so crystalline, yet so full of emotion. Her high notes soared effortlessly, never once straining. And her acting! Every movement had so much thought infused into it. Her face was never once expressionless, and never in his previous twenty-six viewings had Erik been so immersed in Glinda's character. He could hear slight traces of an accent—was it Swedish?—in the way she said certain words, but it made her portrayal all the more charming. She was somewhat lacking in technique, he realized as the show went on, but the sheer amount of talent and nuance she displayed on that stage made up for it almost completely.

He passionately joined in on the standing ovation she received at the curtain call. She looked ecstatic as she ran out, beaming and clutching her heart as tears filled her eyes, and he felt a smile tug at his lips at the sight. She obviously had an immense passion for performing.

He wasn't sure what possessed him to visit the stagedoor that night. It'd never even crossed his mind to visit one, not when he looked like he did and the environment was so chaotic and his social skills were severely stunted. But his dignity be damned, he was doing it tonight. That Glinda— _Christine_ —deserved to be told how brilliant she'd been, even if it was at the cost of his self-respect. It took a painstakingly long time for everyone to come out, and he was hyper-aware of the snickers and dirty looks he was receiving as his masked face stood a head taller than a majority of the crowd, but _finally_ , after his playbill was covered in signatures from ensemble members and two of the less memorable leads, Christine walked out.

She was as radiant as she had been on stage, her heart-shaped lips curved into a smile. Her light brown curls were cut a few inches above her shoulders, framing her delicate features. She started signing the playbills being shoved at her, her face lighting up every time she reached a new fan. She was stunning.

Erik's throat tightened as she got closer. She had previously been announced as the last person stagedooring, and he could see the crowd emptying more and more until…

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_.

She was right in front of him, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say, and he was all of a sudden extremely aware that a guy in a mask was the _last_ person you'd want to see at a mostly empty stagedoor on a Saturday night.

"Hi!" Christine said cheerily, cutting through his thoughts. She smiled that absolutely radiant smile of hers and took his playbill from his clammy hands, scribbling her signature onto it. She was so much tinier than him, having to crane her neck up almost completely just to look him in the face. She handed back his playbill, her hand softly grazing his as she did, and suddenly his throat was closed up again.

"I-I, uh, y-you were wonderful tonight," he managed after a moment. "I-I've seen a lot of G-Glindas, and, uh. Y-you're the best I've seen. By far." Good lord, he sounded ridiculous.

"Oh my god, really?" Christine's smile widened, a tiny squeal escaping her throat. "I—wow." She covered her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry, I just...I always daydreamed about that, you know? I can't believe I'm someone's favorite Glinda!" She let out another little squeak, jumping a little bit this time. "Oh, god, I must look ridiculous right now. I'm so freaking unprofessional."

"No, i-it's fine," he managed. God, she was adorable. And most definitely Swedish, he concluded after hearing her speak.

"Thank you so much, by the way," she said.

"Thank _you_ for giving such a wonderful performance."

He walked away from the theater blushing furiously.

* * *

Erik walked into his apartment with his ears still bright red. He went straight into his office, took a seat at his computer, opened Google, and typed in Christine's name.

She was on as Glinda for the next two shows, according to her Twitter. Without properly thinking it through, Erik opened the _Wicked_ website and bought tickets for Sunday and Tuesday. God, that was stupid of him. And he _knew_ it was stupid, but damn it, he had to see her again. A performance like the one she'd given was far too good to only witness once.

And _her_. She hadn't done any sort of double take when she saw him, hadn't reacted with fear or even the slightest hint of shock. She'd smiled at him and talked to him like he was just any other man and—Jesus _Christ_ , was he really so affection-starved that he treated a polite interaction with a total stranger the same way a middle schooler treated a conversation with their crush?

 _You're such a fucking creep_ , he thought to himself. And yet he was scrolling through her Instagram account at one in the morning, trying to gather as much information about her as he could.

Most of her photos were of her alone, a good number of them showing off the different ensemble costumes she wore. Usually, if she was with someone else, it was with a freckle-faced girl with long blonde hair. For a minute he wondered if they were dating, but upon reading dozens of captions about friendship he figured they weren't. Once he'd scrolled back far enough he found that many of her pictures from the previous year contained a young, fairly handsome boy with messy blonde hair and a pathetic little excuse for a mustache. To his relief, that boy had disappeared from her pictures about five months ago.

 _Why do you care about her relationship status so much?!_

He leaned back in his chair and realized that his cat, Elektra, had crept in and curled up at his feet. He lifted her onto his lap.

"Your dad's a real weirdo, isn't he?" he said to the cat, softly stroking her white coat. "What the hell am I doing?"

He gently placed Elektra on the floor, closing all the tabs on his computer that showed evidence of his cyberstalking. _She's an actress and you're just a fucking fan,_ he reminded himself. Besides, even without that huge barrier between them, he was still _him_. A disfigured, unstable near-recluse who could never, _would_ never, have a chance with someone as young and vibrant and beautiful as Christine.

Still, he could not stop thinking about how her eyes shone so undimmably bright as she'd taken her bows.

* * *

Christine was somehow even better on her second day. She lit up the stage completely, her crystalline soprano soaring above the orchestra with ease. Even with his shitty seat this time around Erik could tell she was completely pouring herself into Glinda. Once again, he gladly joined in on the standing ovation she received.

She'd probably be creeped out if he stagedoored again. One can only pretend to tolerate strange masked admirers for so long, right? And how was he supposed to explain the fact that he was here for the second night in a row?

Still, despite every logical part of him telling him to just leave, he found himself in the same crowd of judgmental tourists and rowdy kids as he had yesterday evening. It was slightly less full, and less cast members came out tonight, so for better or for worse Christine was out much, much sooner. She went down the line fairly quickly, and her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Hi!" she chirped, taking his playbill from his hands. She wrote her name and handed it back. "You were here yesterday, right?"

Erik gulped. "Y-yes, I was," he said, trying his hardest to regain his composure.

"I remember you!" she said, as if she saw dozens of masked men at the stagedoor every day and his appearance wasn't already a dead giveaway. "You were so nice. I'm glad you're back."

His face felt hot under the mask, but he did his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach. "Y-you were spectacular tonight. Even better than yesterday, somehow."

Christine bit her lip, clearly flustered. "Th-thank you!" she said, fidgeting with one of her short curls. "It was nice seeing you again. What's your name, by the way?"

"E-Erik," he choked out. Any illusion of calm he'd created was totally gone.

"Well, _Erik_ ,"—she smiled as she said this, and his name on her lips was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard—"I hope you come back soon."

* * *

Erik brought a camera for the third show. He had a pretty decent amount of experience with bootlegging, and his video masters had a reputation for being of unusually high quality. This was probably a good opportunity to film anyway, since Christine's Glinda debut had been so recent. A full video of her coming out so soon after she first went on would be extremely valuable in the bootleg trading world, and he could probably make some extra money selling it for a few months before trading it out.

He was giving himself excuses, and he knew it. God, he hadn't stopped thinking about Christine for three days straight. He was very aware of how creepy that was. But there he was at the Gershwin for the third time in a row, seeing _Wicked_ for the twenty-ninth time.

 _So this is what your life has come to._

He had picked up on all of her little nuances and quirks now. She hit the optional high note at the end of "No One Mourns The Wicked." She made an effort to touch the actress playing Elphaba as much as possible. She tossed her hair a lot around Fiyero. Her accent slipped out the most during the catfight scene. Her tears in the sad scenes were very, _very_ real, and by the end of the show her mascara was slightly smudged and she had patches of missing foundation.

She couldn't have been more perfect if she tried.

It would be extra stupid for him to go back to the stagedoor today. Speaking technically, he'd just committed a crime, and it was very possible that someone had seen him (not the clueless ushers, of course, but _someone_ ). And there was the matter of bothering Christine for the third time this week and risking looking like either a stalker or a desperate fanboy. It was stupid, _he_ was stupid, and yet…

There he was, in the same crowd, surrounded by just as many squealing teens and uncomfortable adults as he had been yesterday, hearing the exact same snickers and judgemental whispers. He stayed closer to the back this time, not wanting to deal with the cast members giving him dirty looks. Christine came out last as always, her curls sticking out of her messy ponytail. The stagedoor cleared out quickly as she moved through the line, and Erik swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed himself to the front.

"Erik!" Christine said, smiling. "You're back!"

"Third time's the charm," he quipped.

She giggled in response, cheeks turning pink. They both stood there for a moment, drowning in awkward silence, until—

"You wanna take a selfie?"

Erik felt his chest constrict. He hadn't been in a photograph in _years_ , much less taken one of himself. He didn't want to say no, but he didn't even know how to take a damn selfie, and he _really_ didn't want to look at himself, even with the mask. But would saying no give the wrong impression? What impression was he even trying to _make_?

"I just realized you've probably been wanting one," she continued. "Sorry, I've just talked your ear off the last two times and—"

"Yes," he blurted without thinking. "Yes, I'd love a picture."

Hands shaking, he took out his phone and turned it on, opening the camera app for the first time since he'd bought it. He pressed the icon for selfie mode and lifted the phone so it was in front of his face, trying not to look as he crouched down and leaned closer to Christine. Without warning, she wrapped her arm around his neck, and he froze completely.

"I can take it if you want," she said, seeming to sense his discomfort. He simply nodded. Keeping her arm around him, Christine used her free hand to take the phone from his. She positioned it at an angle and smiled, and Erik barely managed a smirk when she took the photo. By the time she was finished he was close to fainting.

"It was nice seeing you again," she said as she handed him back the phone. "Oh"—she gestured to the playbill he was holding under his arm—"do you want me to sign that?"

"S-sure," he replied. Hands still trembling, he handed the playbill to her and she scribbled on it with her usual speed. His head was still too foggy to process anything, his heart only beating faster when her fingers touched his as she handed back the playbill. "Thank you, Christine."

"No problem! Come back soon!" She winked at him, and he swore he was dangerously close to experiencing cardiac arrest in that moment.

He fumbled away from the theatre, his mind and heart racing. He didn't realize what was written on his playbill until he got to his apartment.

Written in her usual handwriting was her distinctively feminine signature, reading _XOXO Christine Daaé_. But underneath was a heart, followed by a hastily written ten-digit phone number.

* * *

 **NOTES:** **Erik's cat is named after the title character from the opera _Elektra_ by Richard Strauss, not that fucking superhero person that shows up when you google Elektra. Also, Christine and Erik's interactions are kind of based on my own experiences at stagedoors (very loosely though, obviously) and Christine's general attitude is based on Christy Altomare's (she's the absolute sweetest and I adore her). This whole fic could very well be a testament to my love for Gina Beck (cuz you know...she played both Christine and Glinda).**

 **ANYWAY, please leave a review if you're inclined to! Those really make my day. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm so sorry about the ridiculous wait for this chapter. It's really not special or extra long or anything, I just had to restart it five billion times because the version I had outlined wasn't working pacing-wise. Follow me on Tumblr if you want (I'm violon-du-mort on there) cuz I talk about this story sometimes. Please leave a review if you feel inclined. Enjoy!**

* * *

Christine wasn't stupid, but at the moment she felt like a goddamn idiot.

She was well aware of how the world worked. Like any child with half-decent parents she'd been warned about stranger danger, and she knew she had to be fairly cautious with fans to avoid getting stalked or murdered. She hadn't been born yesterday after all.

So why the ever-loving _fuck_ had she given her number to a masked guy she'd met three days ago at the damn _stagedoor_?

Part of her wanted to call Meg and listen to whatever speech she'd be getting for being a dumbass. They could probably get her number changed in the morning, and by the next week it'd all be behind them. But the other part of her, the clearly _stupid_ part that had managed to take a backseat in her brain until tonight, decided that no, she wasn't going to do that, she was going to lie in bed and regret doing something incredibly dumb and possibly dangerous while doing absolutely nothing to correct it.

She turned on her side, idly looking at her charging phone on the bedside table. What had she been hoping to get by giving Erik her number, a date? The only guy she'd dated since high school was her childhood friend Raoul. She barely even spoke to anyone anymore. Even if a date _did_ happen (and didn't end in kidnapping and/or murder), she'd probably fuck it up within the first five seconds.

Her life had become a shithole on multiple fronts three years ago. After her father died, she'd dropped out of college after nearly flunking out thanks to depression, lost most of her friends, and generally let her prospects fall to pieces around her while she locked herself in her room and cried. Even though her career was doing all right at the moment (not ideal, but all right), her social life never really recovered, and she had approximately two and a half friends left.

Maybe it was time to jump back into the dating scene, even if it was through the stupidest thing she'd done in years.

She'd be lying to herself if she said she didn't want Erik to call her. His awkwardness at the theater had been so damn _charming_ , and she couldn't help but smile as she remembered how his amber eyes struggled to retain contact with hers while he showered her with compliments. He was so easy to talk to, and she desperately wanted to get to know him better. That's what led to her giving him her number in the first place.

Well, that was part of it. Most of it had been a combination of the euphoria that came from playing Glinda and poor impulse control.

 _Glinda._ God fucking damn it, she was going to miss playing her. Going up on _that_ stage, in _those_ costumes, singing _those_ songs, had been the happiest she'd felt in _years_. For so long she'd felt completely passionless, casting aside her old dreams and floating through life with dangerous indifference. And then she'd gotten on that damn bubble and felt a tsunami of things she'd totally forgotten. She'd felt more like herself in that golden blonde wig than she had in a long time.

She was going back to work tomorrow, to perform the same damn ensemble track and stumble through the same damn choreography as she had been for the past few months, and she was dreading it. She was well-aware of how much of a privilege it was to be in _Wicked_ at all, but dancing wasn't even _close_ to being her biggest strength. She was tired of feeling like every show was half-assed, knowing she was throwing away any of the potential she'd had a few years before.

Sighing, Christine leaned over and grabbed the bunched-up comforter from the end of the bed. She wrapped herself in it, willing sleep to come to her. The past few days had been overwhelming, and she needed a break.

She'd deal with her own stupidity in the morning.

* * *

"Christine? You good?"

Meg Giry waved her hand in front of Christine's face, and Christine immediately swatted it away. They were at a pizza place between shows, and Christine had barely touched her food.

Meg had been Christine's best friend since high school. They'd gone to college together, and after Christine dropped out Meg had become her rock. She was the person who had convinced Christine to audition for _Wicked_ in the first place, and now that they were both in the show they were spending more time together than they ever had. Unfortunately, that meant that Meg was able to read her far better than she used to.

"You've been blanking out all afternoon," Meg said, biting into her pizza. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Christine lied.

"Nothing my ass."

"Meg, can we _please_ not talk about it?"

Meg ran her fingers through her dirty blonde hair, tugging it in frustration. "I want to know what _it_ is!"

"I'm just...tired. And overwhelmed. That's all."

"I doubt that's it, but whatever you say."

Christine sighed. "How's the move with Jammes going, by the way?" she asked, changing the subject.

"It's been _hell_ , honestly. Jammes is so picky about furniture and the movers broke a bunch of shit and I'm _exhausted_."

"That sounds awful."

"It _is_. And Jammes wants to return one of the chairs we got because it _doesn't go with the decor_ or some shit, so now that's a whole situation." Meg rubbed her eyes with her palm. "I'm glad we're doing this, but damn if it's not exhausting."

"I'm surprised you guys put it off as long as you did. You've been together for what, three years?"

"Four. Which is insane. But you know, college. She was in a dorm and I was living with Mom so there wasn't really a point."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, how's _your_ love life?"

Christine snorted. "Nonexistent."

"That sucks."

"Well, not totally," she blurted suddenly. "I've been talking to this one guy and he seems pretty nice, and we're thinking about maybe going on a date next week?"

 _Fuck._

Meg quirked an eyebrow. "And when did this dude enter your life, exactly?"

"Uh, last week? Listen, if a date happens I'll let you know everything about him, but I'm not even sure about that right now."

"You're not gonna tell me _anything_ about this guy? This is gonna be your first date in, like, forever!"

"It's kind of complicated. I just don't want you getting your hopes up for me." _Or thinking I'm the biggest idiot in the history of the world._

"Hun, you gotta stop having low hopes for _yourself_. You're an amazing person, not to mention a fucking snack."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. You're _wonderful_ , Chris. If this guy can't see it, then fuck him. Not literally, though. Definitely do _not_ fuck him if he can't see that."

"But I want him to see it. God, I want him to see it more than I'm proud to admit."

"If he has more than one brain cell, he will."

Christine sighed. "I really hope you're right."

* * *

Erik didn't call until Saturday.

Christine had begun to lose hope completely. If he hadn't called at this point, he never would. He just wasn't interested, and she had to accept that. She'd forget about him soon enough and move on.

Then, while she was undoing her pin curls after the matinee show, her phone started buzzing in her pocket.

She jumped in her seat, hitting her knee against the bottom of the countertop. She didn't get calls often, so she immediately knew who it was, and she sure as hell wasn't prepared for that. Taking her phone out of her pocket, she took a quick glance at the number before accepting the call. She gulped and quickly slipped into the nearest bathroom and locked the door.

"H-hello?"

" _I'm, uh, i-is this Christine?"_ the voice on the other line said. She'd forgotten how deep and smooth Erik's voice was, even when he was stumbling over his words.

"Yes, it is," she replied, as confidently as she could. "Is this Erik?" She already knew the answer. She could recognize his voice anywhere.

" _Y-yes. Um, hello."_

"Hi." _Fuck, what now?_ "I know I was probably too forward and—"

" _N-no, you weren't,"_ he interrupted. She could hear him clearing his throat. " _Actually, i-if it's ok, I was wondering if maybe y-you'd like to d-do something on Monday night?"_

Christine brought her hand to her mouth to keep herself from squealing. "Of course!" she said, probably too brightly. "Yeah, that'd be awesome. Do you have anything in mind or…"

" _I w-was thinking we could go to dinner, maybe? There's a restaurant I had in mind, and I could send you the information if that's fine with you?"_

"Perfect. See you on Monday!"

" _S-see you then. And, um, thank you."_

"You're welcome," she said, unsure of exactly what she was being thanked for. He hung up before she could say anything else.

Sighing, Christine leaned against the bathroom wall. _Well, fuck._ Erik didn't appear to be a serial killer, considering he was taking her to a restaurant and not an abandoned lot in the middle of nowhere. And she was going on a date with him.

She needed to buy a nice dress before Monday.

* * *

The restaurant Erik had chosen was more formal than Christine had expected, and suddenly she was extremely thankful for Jammes's advice to overdress just in case. Readjusting the off-the-shoulder sleeves of her red cocktail dress, Christine took a deep breath before walking out of the taxi, hastily thanking the driver as she closed the door.

Erik was hard to miss among the diners sitting inside the restaurant. He was pristinely dressed in a perfectly-fitted black suit, every strand of his raven black hair perfectly in place. And there was, of course, the matter of his mask.

The white mask he wore covered his entire face besides his eyes, mouth, and chin. Christine didn't question it—it probably served to cover some sort of injury or condition, and she could imagine how annoying the constant stares and questions were—but she couldn't help her ever-growing curiosity about what was underneath.

 _This is only your first date with this dude,_ she thought to herself. _Don't fuck it up with stupid questions._ Biting her lip, she waved to Erik and skittered towards the table, struggling not to trip in her heels.

"Hey," she said, taking a seat in front of him. "Sorry if I kept you waiting. The traffic was awful and I had trouble getting a taxi."

"It's all right," he said. "I haven't been here long." His fingers tapped frantically on the table, his amber eyes cast downwards and avoiding contact with hers.

"Soooo…" Christine flipped through the menu, trying to ignore the ridiculous price on each item. "Uh, how's your day been?"

"All right, I suppose. And you?"

"Pretty good."

She started tapping her feet against the carpeted floor, suddenly overwhelmed by the awkwardness passing between them.

A black-clad waiter walked up to their table, his eyes immediately landing on Erik. Christine tried to ignore the obvious gawking, which became impossible when he started looking back and forth between both of them, making little effort to hide his shock. Erik was clearly pissed, and Christine could tell by his tone of voice and the way he slapped the menu into the waiter's arm that it was taking everything in him not to _strangle_ the guy.

"That was rude," she said once the waiter had walked away.

"What was?" Erik said bitterly.

"That dude staring you down like that. He wasn't even _trying_ to be discrete."

"I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't be."

A hint of a smile appeared on his lips, but it was gone in a split second.

"Are you Swedish?" he said after a moment.

"Yeah, I was born there. How'd you know?"

"Y-you have a bit of an accent. I noticed it when I first saw you perform."

"You'd think after 18 years of being in the States it would've gone away, but oh well."

"No, I, uh, I th-think it's r-rather charming."

Christine felt the blood rushing to her head. She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Thanks," she said. "We moved here after my mom died, and it was just me and my dad for the longest time. I was homeschooled 'til high school, so his accent rubbed off on me, I guess."

"Are you and your father close?"

"Yeah. Really close." She sighed. "Well, we were. He died three years ago."

"Oh." His eyes met hers for the first time that night. "I'm sorry, Christine."

"It's fine." She looked down, biting her lip. Taking a deep breath, she looked up again, forcing a smile. "Let's change the subject. Tell me about yourself."

His eyes shifted again, his posture stiffening. "What's there to tell?"

"You know, what you like, what you do, that kind of stuff."

"W-well, music is probably my biggest passion. I'm a music journalist, actually. I write reviews for musical theatre and operas, and on the side I also compose—"

"Oh my God, you're a _composer_?"

"Yes, I am. I-I've written a couple of operas, actually."

"You write _operas_?" Her mouth dropped open. "Jesus _Christ_ , that takes some serious talent. You gotta show me your stuff at some point."

"Yes, of course. Perhaps you could sing some of it?"

"O-oh, I'm not...I'm not an opera singer. Well, uh, I used to be, but then I dropped out of college, and I...well, I haven't sung opera in years. That's probably a bad idea."

"If your performances last week are anything to go off of, I'm sure you could handle it with ease."

Christine could feel herself blushing furiously. For a man who stumbled over every other word, Erik sure was good at flattering her.

The rest of the night turned out to be one of the best nights Christine had had in years. Erik was ridiculously multitalented, apparently treating architecture and painting like casual hobbies. His eyes lit up when he talked about music, and every time the subject switched back to that she could see the immense passion he had for it. Even when she was the one talking, he was clearly taking in every word. It was nice to talk to someone who cared as much as she did.

Even as they grew more comfortable with each other, there was an undeniable tenseness to him. He never stopped fidgeting, and his eyes never stopped darting around the room. He seemed hyper-aware of the stares directed at him, and it was only a matter of time before she was as well. He refused to talk about his family. Christine couldn't help but notice how unusually thin he was, or the mottled yellow tint of his exposed skin.

They ended up splitting the bill, and neither of them tipped. Erik offered to wait for Christine's Uber with her, but she declined.

"Tonight was fun," she said as they walked out. "It's the first time I've done something like this in a while and it was...really great. So thank you."

"It's been a pleasure." Erik looked down at his shoes. "It's, uh, i-it's been a while for me, t-too." He looked up, his golden eyes meeting hers. "I had a wonderful time, Christine."

God, she loved how he said her name.


End file.
